On A Wing And A Prayer: The Ties That Bind
by Vi Co
Summary: The first story in a series, taking place September 3, 1939. This has been completely overhauled although no plot changes have been made. Shultz has been added. Reviews are more than welcomed.
1. Muncie, Indiana

Author's Note -- I first wrote this story three years ago, back when I was still sixteen. I like the 'On a Wing and a Prayer' story series and they provide a good background for the stories that I have been writing later. However, on re-reading them seriously I find them to need a few improvements.

No changes have been made to the plots of the stories, but I have tried to develop the characters more deeply and provide more than just the superficial treatment that they were given originally. The sets of five will be updated together... Please let me know if the updated version is better or worse than the original (if you remember the original and care to re-read). Thanks!

* * *

September 3, 1939 – Muncie, Indiana

"So, Andrew," the old man said, hooking his cane on the counter, "how is your mother these days? I haven't seen her around in ages."

"She's visiting Aunt Bessie and Uncle Sam in North Dakota," Andrew Carter answered, looking up and grinning at the man. "She should be home sometime next week." He permitted himself a moment, then he bent his head back down and continued wrapping his package.

"I suppose that means that the rabbits that have been raiding my vegetable garden will go into hibernation for the winter then," the man quipped, rapping his knuckles on the counter to make sure he had Carter's attention. "They always seem to disappear just about the time your mother gets back from visiting your aunt and uncle."

Carter's ears burned red as he tied the last knot in the string and straightened up. "Have you been having problems with rabbits again, Mr. Willis?" he asked innocently. "Chris and I would be happy to wander over and set some traps. You should have told us sooner."

"They only got into the peas and carrots," Mr. Willis told Carter, one corner of his mouth twitching up in a smile. "And Lord knows that I've never been especially fond of those vegetables. I don't think I'll be having any more problems with rabbits; they've done cleaned out my stock."

Carter nodded solemnly and handed the neatly wrapped package over. "Well, if you have any more trouble, we'd be happy to take a look for you," he offered.

"Thank you for the offer, Andrew," Mr. Willis answered, taking the package and picking up his cane. He walked over to the door of the shop, hardly leaning on the cane. At the door he turned, shaking the cane back at Carter. "Behave yourself," he ordered with a wink.

"You got it boy, uh, sorry, sir," Carter replied, waving merrily. The bell above the door tinkled as Mr. Willis left the shop. Carter busied himself tidying up the few loose bits of paper and bits of twine as he watched Mr. Willis make his way in front of the big picture window and off down the street to the grocer's.

When Mr. Willis was no longer in sight, Carter stepped over to the window, checking up and down the street, making sure that there was no one around to observe. When he had satisfied himself that there was no one there, he reached under the counter, feeling around for a paper bag he had stashed near the back.

Finding it, he fumbled with it for a moment before removing one polished candy ball. He took one more look up and down the street before sticking it into his mouth and starting to suck on it, a grin growing on his face.

He had only done a few more minutes of busy work when the bell above the door rang again, announcing a customer. "Hey, Andrew," Carter's older brother called as he let the door swing shut behind him with another ring of the bell.

Carter nearly choked on his candy at the yell, but he had the presence of mind to shove the half-melted ball of sugar underneath his tongue before he turned to answer. "What do you want, Chris?" he replied.

"Today's paper here yet?" Chris asked, crossing the small store in four easy strides.

"Not yet," Carter answered. "It should be here any minute though." He was using every ounce of the willpower that he had built up over the years to refrain from sucking on the candy, even as the super-sweetened saliva pooled in his mouth.

Chris cocked his head to the side, evaluating his younger brother's actions. "Are you into the jawbreakers already this morning?" he asked after a few moments of observation.

Carter shook his head, perhaps a little to zealously. "No siree!" he assured Chris. "Why it's not even lunchtime yet."

Chris kept Carter under his gaze for another long minute. Carter could feel the candy dissolving beneath his tongue, but he was determined that this time Chris wouldn't catch him. It was a battle of wills that had been going on for years between the two of them.

"Have you seen Brian around yet?" Chris questioned, still keeping his sharp eyes glued on Carter's face. "He was supposed to help me paint the fences, but he skedaddled as soon as the sun was up."

Carter pretended to think for a minute, using the opportunity to inconspicuously suck on the jawbreaker. "Nope," he told Chris after a moment's thought. "I haven't seen him since last night. But I do have a couple of suggestions about where you might find him."

Chris held up his hands. "Whoa," he retorted, "I'm not that desperate yet. Besides, if I know Brian, he'll be back by lunchtime." Carter nodded his agreement as the bell announced the arrival of the papers.

The man hauled he bundles into the store and deposited them on the counter between the two brothers. "Sorry it took so long today, Andrew," he apologized. "But they had some delay at the printers and they wouldn't release them until eleven. And you're the last stop on my run."

"It's okay, Jim," Andrew assured him, bending over the papers and sucking on his candy again. "Chris here is always the first one to ask after them anyway," he continued with a grin up at Jim. "Enjoy your Sunday."

"Will do," Jim replied, backing out of the store. "I'll see you again Wednesday. Hopefully I won't keep your brother waiting then," he added, smiling at Chris.

Chris reached across the counter to playfully punch his brother's arm. "What'd you have to go and say that for?" he teased. "Makes me sound like a geek."

Carter stuck his tongue out at his brother, forgetting completely about his candy. Chris instantly noticed the bright streaks of colour on his brother's tongue. "Caught again," Chris quipped, wagging his finger at Carter.

Carter's face turned red as he reached for the scissors. "Let's see what was so important that it had to wait until eleven," he said instead, ignoring his brother's self-satisfied grin. The pretense abandoned, he sucked happily on the candy as he peeled back the protective brown paper wrapper.

Chris peered across the counter eagerly, anxious to know what was going on outside the small world of Muncie gossip. He started to whistle a tune gaily, happy at having tripped up his brother again. But as the stark headline was revealed, he lapsed into silence.

**The Time For Peace Is Over – Britain and France Will Fight **


	2. London, England

September 3, 1939 – London, England

_The world is now at war. As of eleven o'clock this morning, a state of war has existed between Britain and Germany. The mobilization of ground, air, and sea forces continues around the country. Any members of the armed forces or the reserves are to report to the nearest base or recruiting office immediately. _

_New Zealand and Australia have just declared war on Germany. Canada pledges its support but a Canadian declaration of war is not being issued at this time. This concludes the BBC Special Report. _

"Hey, Murray!" Peter Newkirk yelled across the crowded pub, watching for his brother's curly head to pop up. "You owe me a round of drinks for me and me friends."

There had been no response to his name, but at the mention of having to buy drinks, Murray's head snapped up and he started dodging tables to make his way over to his older brother. "What do you mean I owe you a round of drinks?" he protested. "I bought the last round. It's your turn to buy me and me mates a round!"

"Don't you remember our bet, you little bugger?" Newkirk asked, cuffing his brother lightly. Murray stood a head taller than Newkirk, but Newkirk had never been able to stop thinking of him as the kid brother who had trailed him forlornly around London after their father had split.

"Which bet?" Murray questioned, scratching his head. There was no shortage of bets to remember. The two were always betting one another about something. Or if they weren't betting themselves, they were acting as bookies for their friends. It was a lucrative side business to their magic act.

Newkirk rolled his eyes. It was just like his brother to conveniently forget a bet that he had just lost. "You said that the situation on the Continent wouldn't come to war," he said, poking his brother in the ribs as though the prodding would jar his memory.

Murray thought for another moment, then nodded his head ruefully. "That I did," he admitted reluctantly. He sighed, motioning for the bartender. "Uncle Frank, I guess Peter'll be having a dark and tan on me."

"What's the occasion?" the man asked, wiping his hands on his apron. "You to pick up some beautiful birds? And do they have a friend for me?" he added with a wink.

"No luck this time, Uncle Frank," Newkirk replied happily. "This whippersnapper bet that there wouldn't be a war," he explained as their uncle drew the ale. "And you all heard the BBC!" he announced to the bar, draining the last bit of his previous drink.

"You know, Peter," Frank commented, leaning up on the counter, "I can guarantee that you won't be nearly so happy when this whole business is over. I can give you great odds on that one." Unconsciously, his hand drifted down his side.

Newkirk knew that Frank had scars marking his torso; he had been caught in a burst of shellfire during the last war. Newkirk nodded solemnly for a moment, but he couldn't repress the exuberance in his eyes. "Quiet!" he called. "I said QUIET!" he repeated as the hubbub died down.

"That's better," he continued, pulling a pen from his pocket with a flourish. "When we've defeated the Krauts," he stated confidently, "the first round of drinks that day is on me. That's right. I'm going to buy every last bloody one of you a drink."

He reached into another pocket for the only source of paper he carried with him everywhere, his little black book. He flipped to the last few pages, thankful that it was a new book. His last one had been filled a week or so ago. "Just sign your names here," he declared, "so I can keep track of how many quid I've got to save up."

Murray slapped his brother's back resoundingly. "Let me be the first on your list," he replied, snatching the pen out of Newkirk's hand and scrawling his name at the top of the page. "I never pass up the opportunity for a drink on someone else."

People were starting to press in toward the bar, anxious to get their names on the list. They too never liked to pass up the opportunity for a free drink. Behind the bar, Frank rubbed his side thoughtfully. Newkirk reached out to snatch up the ale that had been poured for him, chugging it down as fast as he could.

"Make sure I get that book back," he whispered across the bar to his uncle. "I got the number of a blonde 35-32- 36 the other day. Haven't had a chance to ring her up yet," he added with a wink that Frank didn't return.

Sliding through the crowd toward the door, Newkirk hesitated on the threshold, calling out, "But everyone, this round's on Murray!"

Murray's head shot up and he started trying to fight his way through the crowd toward the door. Peter grinned, tipped his hat to his younger brother, and stepped out onto the London streets, humming a happy tune.


	3. Detroit, Michigan

September 3, 1939 – Detroit, Michigan

"Hey, Ivan, wait up!"

Ivan Kinchloe heard the call and paused in his stride, turning just in time to see his younger sister run out of the house, still wearing her dressing gown. She had obviously been sent straight from the breakfast table to fetch him because she clutched a half-eaten piece of toast in one hand and the newspaper in the other.

"What is it, pipsqueak?" Kinch asked, his long arm snaking out to yank on one of her braids.

She tried to swat him with the rolled up newspaper, but her reach was too short. Kinch laughed, a deep laugh that echoed up and down the empty street. "I've been instructed to inform you that supper tonight will be at six," she told him haughtily, spinning on her heel to head back into the house. "And for your information, I am NOT a pipsqueak," she added, turning to survey Kinch disdainfully over her shoulder.

Kinch just laughed again, reaching his hand out to easily catch her wrist. "Now, you were saying?" he asked jovially, keeping a firm grip on her wrist.

"You know," she started, "you've always been my favourite brother." She dropped the paper, using her free hand to try and pry his fingers off of her arm.

"I'm also your only brother," Kinch reminded her, watching as she unsuccessfully attempted to free herself.

"Well," she retorted, "that's just a minor technicality."

"However you want to see it, pipsqueak," Kinch replied, taking the toast out of her hand and taking a bite.

She rolled her eyes, giving up her toast for lost. "I was done eating that anyway," she told him, hoping to deflate his victory a little.

"Sure you were," Kinch answered, taking another big bite and making a show of licking his lips in satisfaction.

She sighed in response. "You going to let me go any time soon?" she asked, feigning nonchalance.

"Sounds like someone has some big plans today," Kinch noted, polishing off the last of his sister's breakfast.

"I'm just meeting Cliff at the park later," she revealed reluctantly.

"That's why you're so anxious to get going," Kinch commented. "You've got meet your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend!"

"Sure he's not. And I'm the queen of England."

"Well, good morning your royal highness," she retorted, bowing as low as she could with one wrist still in Kinch's grip. "Now will you let me go?"

Kinch rubbed his chin for a moment as he pretended to ponder. Finally, he let her go, calling, "Have fun with your boyfriend."

"He's NOT my boyfriend!" she shot back, stooping to pick up the paper.

Kinch reached out to snag it first. "Whatever you say, pipsqueak."

She crossed her arms over her chest, staring angrily at Kinch. "I am not a pipsqueak," she replied angrily.

"Goodbye, Susie," he told her, finally resuming his walk away from the house.

"My name is Susan, you doorknob!" she yelled after him.

Kinch laughed again as he headed down the street toward the bus stop. He was now running a little later than usual, but that only meant that he wouldn't have to wait as long for the bus. He was looking forward to getting to work; he and his father worked together, the only father and son team employed by the Detroit phone company. His father had been at work for a couple of hours already, but Kinch had pulled a later shift, something he was grateful for. Still, he liked being busy; for him, getting to work with his father was just a bonus.

Kinch and his father shared a relationship that was more than just father and son, even though James Kinchloe hadn't been around for most of Kinch's childhood. He had had to work two and sometimes three jobs in order to make ends meet. But he had never complained and he always been there whenever Kinch and his sister needed him.

Kinch respected him for that, especially when he was old enough to start working himself. And if anything, that was what drew them together. Although working under his father was awkward at first, Kinch had quickly proved himself an able worker and had moved up through the ranks. It was working as an equal with his father that had taught Kinch the most important lessons about the true measure of a man.

Reflecting briefly on his relationship with his father, Kinch turned his attention to the newspaper that he had snatched away from his sister. He found himself using the bus rides for serious introspective thought all too often and welcomed the lighter respite of the news. That was until he caught sight of the bold headline that burst off the page.

**World at War – Warsaw Still Under Heavy Bombardment  
**


	4. Paris, France

September 3, 1939 – Paris, France

LeBeau expertly wove his way through the maze of tables as he made his way back to the kitchen. "Renée!" he yelled, trying to convey the depth of his annoyance in that one word.

His sister didn't answer. She had disappeared during the middle of the lunch rush, leaving ten tables waiting for service and another half-dozen parties waiting to be seated. It didn't matter that the café was one of the area's smallest, it was also one of the busiest.

"Louis, table four's order is ready," Pierre declared, pushing the three plates toward LeBeau. "And mind you don't drop any of these ones," he directed firmly. "We don't have time to be remaking every order."

"It wasn't my fault," LeBeau protested. "Madame LePoint pushed her chair back just as I was walking past. With the terrace tables crammed in there, there isn't hardly room to breathe without knocking something over."

"You were just lucky that Monsieur and Madame Huot had already left for the evening," Pierre noted, point firmly to the door. "Now, are you going to serve table four or let their bouillabaisse get cold?"

"I'd like to see you out waiting tables," LeBeau shot back, hurriedly arranging the plates on a large tray.

"I'd like to see you make me," Piere retorted. "Now out!"

LeBeau sighed and carefully backed out the swinging door that connected the dining room with the kitchen. He edged his way through the tightly placed tables, holding the tray up above the heads of the seated patrons. It wouldn't be good for business if he knocked someone unconscious.

But the café never seemed to be suffering for lack of business. A homey atmosphere combined with a great location and gourmet cooking to create a place that people kept coming back to. It had grown from a tiny café into something that was an area landmark. It had slowly absorbed the space of two of its neighbours and really had outgrown the café designation, but the LeBeaus had never thought of it as a restaurant.

"Louis, what are you doing out of the kitchen?" Renée asked over the noise of the bustling café. She had reappeared from wherever she had gone and was standing with her hands on her hips, blocking LeBeau's path.

"Someone had to wait tables," LeBeau said simply, taking a detour around another table to get around her. He started handing out the plates, not bothering to give his sister a second glance. He knew that would annoy her more than anything else he could say or do.

"But not you, petit cochon," she retorted, taking one of the plates off of his tray and putting it on the table. "Your place is in the kitchen, along with your brothers."

LeBeau didn't answer her; he just made his silent way back to the kitchen, Renée trailing behind him. "If you were waiting tables, we would have to close the café in a month. I doubt that you would make it through the first two weeks," she declared, furiously starting to gather clean silverware for several newly-emptied tables.

"Thank you," LeBeau replied cheekily. "You only gave Pierre a week out of the kitchen. And André got less than that!"

Renée stalked out of the kitchen without another word, fastidiously ignoring both of her brothers.

"Table six hasn't ordered yet," Pierre called out as the door swung closed behind her. Renée didn't give the slightest indication that she heard Pierre. They had no clue whether she was going to take the order or not. "Louis," Pierre directed.

"But Renée has magically reappeared," LeBeau stated, emphasizing the obvious. He reached for his white hat. When he had been ordered from the kitchen to fill in for the missing Renée, he had abandoned it to the counter. Now that he was back in the kitchen, he could once again wear the white hat of his trade.

"That's nice, petit cochon," Pierre commented offhandedly. "Now go and see if table six is ready to order yet."

LeBeau threw up his hinds in complete frustration. It was never easy being the youngest of five children, but that was made all the more difficult when four of them worked together in the family café. Still, Pierre was the oldest and that gave him slightly more authority, even if Renée had the sharper tongue.

With a sigh, he put his hands on the swinging door, pushing it open briskly. The usual soft swish of the hinges was suddenly accompanied by the crash of china and a strangled cry that LeBeau instantly recognized as his sister's. He stepped away from the door, knowing full well that his sister would be bursting through any second.

"You clumsy oaf!" she yelled, barging through the door right on schedule. "Look what you did!" Her formerly pristine apron was spotted with flecks of pesto sauce. Her white blouse was smeared with cheese sauce. Linguine noodles dangled from her ears and were caught in her hair.

Pierre looked up from his cooking and laughed. "I don't know, Renée," he chortled. "I think it's a good look for you. It'll be all the rage next season."

Beneath the layer of sauce, her face started turning red. It was obvious that she was preparing to give them both the tongue lashing of the year. The grins started to fade from the faces of both brothers as they realised that Renée might very well decide to vanish for the day, leaving them to run the café on their own.

Thankfully, an anomaly in the noise coming from the dining area saved them from her wrath. There was a blip in the murmur of contented diners; something had happened. Then the bustle from the next room took on a completely different air. It was obvious that there was something wrong, even if they couldn't tell what it was from the kitchen.

LeBeau took a hurried step back to the swinging door, Renée hard on his heels. She had completely forgotten about her appearance in her desire to find out what was happening. Pierre rounded the end of the counter to peer over the shoulders of his siblings.

They found their father standing in the middle of a growing crowd. Diners had abandoned their dinners to press toward the café's founder, chattering excitedly. A few tables sat in silence, looking shocked. One woman was openly weeping into her napkin.

"Papa, what's happening?" Renée called, hurrying toward him.

He saw her coming and detached himself from the crowd, pressing through them to reach his children. As he pushed toward them, someone stared singing Le Marseilles in a resounding baritone. It was picked up by those surrounding him, growing until the sound spilled out into the street.

"We've declared war on the filthy Boche!" he declared excitedly. "Vive la France!"


	5. Bridgeport, Connecticut

September 3, 1939 – Bridgeport, Connecticut

_Neville Chamberlain's frantic bids for 'peace for our time' have failed. After the German army invaded Poland at dawn on September the first, an ultimatum was issued to the German leader, Adolph Hitler. The forty-eight hours the German army was given to withdraw have slowly ticked away, and with them have gone the last hours of peace. _

_Britain's declaration of war was read out earlier today and France's declaration of war followed soon after. Members of the British Commonwealth have pledged their support and many have issued their own declarations of war. More are expected at any time. _

_Here at home, President Roosevelt is calling for a special session of Congress. It is expected that the Neutrality Act will be invoked, stopping all shipments of munitions and war materials into countries at war. _

Sitting quietly in his parents' home in Connecticut, Robert Hogan reached out to snap the radio off. The news from Europe had been getting progressively worse over the months as Hitler had threatened peace again and again. At first everyone had thought it would end with Czechoslovakia; it was a small price to pay for peace. But it had quickly become clear to all but the most naïve that Hitler would stop at nothing but war. Still, everyone had hoped that war might be averted in the eleventh hour.

Now that the eleventh hour had passed, Hogan found himself wondering whether Roosevelt commit them to fighting or whether he would rest assured that the United States was safe, surrounded by its oceans. It appeared as though he would leave the old powers of Europe to fight their own battles.

Even though he was alone, Hogan found himself with the need to talk to someone, to verbally state the thoughts that were tumbling wildly inside his mind. "So, it's finally come to war. And we won't get in on the show until fate comes knocking at our door," he mused angrily, getting up to pace back and forth across the room.

"Listen!" he said to himself. "It sounds almost as though I want for us to fight. I've been in the military since I was eighteen; I know as well as anyone else that we haven't been preparing for war. I know that we're not ready to fight. I know that any sane person doesn't want for us to fight."

He sighed and sank back down into the chair again, resting his hands on his knees. "But, unfortunately, I also know that we can't just pretend there's nothing happening in Europe. I know that eventually we're going to have to fight and we're not going to be getting ready by ignoring this!" he finished angrily, balling his hands into fists.

He stood up, ready to start pacing again, when he heard the screen door bang shut. Someone had come home. He wasn't sure who it was and froze, watching for someone to come into the living room. He knew that they couldn't have failed to hear his angry tirade through the open window.

"Robbie?" It was his younger sister. "Is that you?" she called in confusion. He hadn't told anyone that he was coming home; of course she would be confused.

"Yeah," he yelled back. "It's me, Vicki."

"What are you doing here?" she asked delightedly, flying around the corner. "Do Mom and Dad know you're home?" she demanded.

"Nope," Hogan answered, opening his arms for a hug. "I managed to wrangle a weekend pass and thought I'd come down and surprise you all."

"Boy, are you ever going to get it when Mom and Dad get home from the market!" Vicki declared, sinking into her oldest brother's arms. She pulled away to get a better look at him. "You know that Mom likes cooking a feast for you when you come home."

Hogan patted his stomach. "Trust me, I know. Too many more feasts and I'll have to requisition new uniforms," he laughed.

"So, Lieutenant-Colonel Hogan," she said, pulling herself up to attention, "how goes the war?" It was a long-standing joke between the two of them, stretching back to when Hogan had first entered West Point. Suddenly, with the turn of events, the joke wasn't funny at all. Even the memory of a pudgy five-year-old girl solemnly saluting a wiry eighteen-year-old cadet couldn't lighten the sudden significance.

"Vicki," Hogan said seriously, taking her shoulders in his hands, "it's real. The news was just on the radio. Britain and France are both in, but Roosevelt is invoking the damned Neutrality Act with a special session of Congress. We're taking the cowards' way out of this."

Vicki stepped away from her brother, eyes sweeping up and down his uniform. "You sound almost like you want us to go to war, Robbie," she said disapprovingly. Her eyes had grown icy and her voice was cold.

"Of course I don't want to go to war!" Hogan burst, starting to pace again. "I know that you're way too young to remember the last war, but I remember it. I don't remember all of it, but I remember bits and pieces." He lapsed into silence for a moment, thinking.

"Mr. Johnson down the street," he started brokenly, "he went to France. Before he went, he always used to have time for us boys; he was like another one of us. No matter how busy he was, he would always make time. Then he went to war. When he came back, he was missing a leg. That's what we could see. But he was missing more than that, much more than that."

"What do you mean?" Vicki asked hesitantly. She knew Mr. Johnson, a quiet man who kept to himself and walked with a limp. But she didn't know his story; people didn't talk about the war much.

"He was different," Hogan explained. "He didn't have time for us anymore. He didn't want to be around us and would go out of his way to avoid us. It was like he went away one person and came back as someone else. War has more casualties than just the ones who don't live."

"And if it does come to war, you'll fight." It wasn't a question, but rather a statement. Vicki knew that he would fight. One did not join the army in peace to desert it during war.

Although an answer wasn't really necessary, Hogan responded anyway. "Of course I'll fight," he said. "I'm a soldier."

"And the others?" she asked, referring to their brothers.

Hogan shrugged. He had never been able to speak for his younger brothers. They had never understood his unwavering devotion to the army. They didn't share his sense of duty; one that carried him above and beyond what was expected.

"People die in wars," she stated softly, turning away from Hogan.

"Yeah, Vicki," Hogan replied, turning her back to face him. "I know."

"You still think we've got to fight?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"Yeah," Hogan told her. "I do."


	6. Heidelburg, Germany

September 3, 1939 – Heidelburg, Germay

The front door of the house burst open with a bang, shattering the near silence of the house. "Where have mein kinder gone?" Hans Shultz called out jovially, stepping into the foyer and looking down the hall in anticipation of his children's approach. He didn't have long to wait.

Mere moments after his call, there was a sudden commotion in the hall as the five Shultz children raced toward their father, vying to be first to reach their father. "We are right here, Vati," the youngest, Liesl, called out joyfully.

"So I see," Shultz chuckled, kneeling down and opening his arms wide. The children pressed excitedly into them, the older ones hanging back to let the youngest come closest to their father.

The oldest boy, Oskar, hung back the longest, almost as though he was tyring to decide if he was too old to join the gaggle in his father's arms. "It is good to see you home again, Vater," he said after a moment, coming to lay his cheek against his father's broad shoulder. Apparently twelve was not yet too old to be hugged.

Shultz wasn't looking forward to the day when Oskar finally decided that he was too old to come running to greet him. But Shultz knew the day was coming all too quickly. As he enfolded his eldest, he resolved to treasure these moments as best he could. They came more and more infrequently since he had been pressed into the military. Shultz knew that they would become even more rare now that Hitler had finally launched the war.

He stifled a sigh as he reflected that it seemed as though all men and boys were being pressed into some sort of military service. Even the youth group that the boys had to belong to was little more than a glorified military training group. They held drills and competitions, marching up and down the hills outside the city. Add rifles and full packs and it would be difficult to distinguish the difference between the youth marches and a group of soldiers on a forced march.

The children didn't notice his sigh; they were only in his arms for a few moments before they were swarming on him, dipping their hands into his pockets as they looked for treats. Liesl scrambled up to reach the top pockets of his tunic, calling, "Mutti! Vati has come home to us again."

Oskar stepped back, pulling at imagined wrinkles in his Jungvolk uniform. Shultz watched his son instead of delighting in the search of his younger children. Oskar was taking such pride in his uniform and in the Jungvolk activities. As an active and inquisitive boy, it was only to be expected that he enjoy the physical games and the intellectual competitions that the group provided.

But before Shultz had time to further muse over the changes in his young son, his wife came out of the kitchen, a broad apron tied around her waist. Gretchen's cheeks were flushed from leaning over the stove, but a smile lit up her face as she watched their children piled up on her husband.

"Mein kinder," she sighed, "at least let your father get to his feet." The children reluctantly backed away, knowing better than to argue with their mother when she used that tone of voice. Gretchen winked at Shultz as he hauled himself to his feet, adding, "It is easier to reach to the bottoms of his pockets when he is standing." In an instant, the children were on him again, yelling to one another around Shultz's girth.

"Heidi, let me look in that one," Liesl complained. "I can't reach the high ones."

Heidi ignored her, continuing to dip her hands in and out of pockets. Shultz saw that Liesl was preparing to get her way by any means her five- year-old mind could come up with. That situation was never a pretty one. So, Shultz winked at Liesl, scratching his head as the other children worked their way around to his back. Then he opened his hand to reveal a bright hair ribbon. Her eyes instantly lit up and her pudgy hands reached out for it. Shultz saw the exultant cry rising on her lips and held a warning finger up to his lips. He wanted to surprise the other children as well.

Liesl nodded her head solemnly and reached up to take the present from her father's hand. He gave it to her and she instantly took off, gloating that she had been the first to get her gift. Heidi, the next youngest at seven, noticed almost instantly that her younger sister had vanished. "Vati," she whined, coming around to stand in front of her father, hands on her hips. "Your pockets are empty."

"And if they are?" he asked seriously.

"I saw you give Liesl something," she complained.

"I did no such thing," Shultz maintained, reaching up to tip his helmet a little further back on his head.

Heidi, with the certainty that she was missing out on something, started pouting. The boys, undeterred by the empty pockets, had turned to Shultz's greatcoat, burrowing into the creases in search of their surprises. Shultz, checking to make sure they weren't watching, opened his hand to Heid, revealing another bright ribbon. Heidi grabbed at it, hurrying off down the hall after her sister.

Shultz was saddened to see that Oskar had disappeared somewhere, probably off to the kitchen to finish his schoolwork before the night's Jungvolk meeting. He was disappointed that his oldest son didn't join in with the other children, but Oskar was growing older. Shultz recognized that this was something he was going to have to learn to deal with; all of his children were growing up. And he was missing it.

The two boys concluded their fruitless search of his overcoat and started to move on to Shultz's pack. "Boys," Gretchen called out warningly, "stay out of your father's pack."

The twins complied reluctantly, sulking. "Yes, Mutter," they murmured in disappointment. They started to move off down the hall.

"My twins," Shultz called after them, "there is one place that you have forgotten."

The boys turned around eagerly. "Where Vatti?" they questioned.

Shultz laughed, reaching down into the tops of his boots. When he pulled his hands back, he was holding half a dozen carved wooden soldiers in each hand. "Now," he mused, holding the soldiers just high enough that the boys couldn't reach, "is it blue for Erik or for Karl?"

"Blue for me, Vatti," one of the boys called.

"That's right," Shultz said, handing him half of the soldiers. "Blue for Karl."

"Vatti," the boy protested, "I'm Erik."

Shultz reached down to ruffle the boy's hair. "I know, liebchen. Look, your initials are even carved into the bottom, in case YOU get confused," he said as he handed the remainder of the soldiers to Karl. The identical boys laughed, scurrying away to play with their new toys.

"What do you say?" Gretchen called after them. "All of you," she added, raising her voice so that all of the children could hear her.

"Danke, Vatti," the four chorused happily.

Gretchen stepped over to her husband, placing a quick kiss on his cheek. "You spoil them, Hans," she commented indulgently.

"Maybe," he admitted. "But the war will not allow them to remain children for much longer."

Gretchen sighed. "I know. It is already taking Oskar from us."


End file.
